


Underchunders

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossdressing, Erotica, Hogwarts Era, Romance, Second War with Voldemort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-02
Updated: 2009-07-02
Packaged: 2018-10-27 16:29:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10812699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: How Daphne Greengrass (and a pair of tighty whities) helped Millicent Bulstrode learn to be more comfortable in her own skin





	Underchunders

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Written for Daily Deviant's April 2009 prompt of 'Underwear (as a fetish)'

It had always been her dirty little secret, the reason she changed behind the stall in the bathroom instead of in the dorm with the other girls. But there was nothing sordid or _abnormal_ behind her choice, it was a simple matter of comfort. The other sort dug into her (rather wide) waist, and sagged in the back where most other girls had pert little curves. It wasn't her fault--her mum had always despaired that she'd inherited her father's body rather than her own, but Millicent didn't mind. His memory had faded years earlier and quite frankly it was nice to look into the mirror and have at least _that_ from him--to know that if anything, at least his shape lived on.

But anyway, back to the knickers. Or the pants that decidedly _weren't_ knickers. She really didn't see what the harm was. She knew she was a girl--she didn't need tiny, frilly, pink knickers (that would only end up riding up her arse anyway) to prove that she had estrogen flowing through her body, enough to have given her breasts that almost didn't deserve the word and blood flowing out of her fanny a few days a month, completely bollixing up her Quidditch training.

Still, there was more to it--they were _comfortable,_ certainly, but that didn't completely explain the way she felt when she slid them on--the faint buzzing of her skin that somehow managed to calm her and stimulate her at the same time. The soft, cool feel of cotton sliding up her thigh, the way the fabric stretched and shifted and finally settled around her, just as comfortable as curling up in the warm corner between the fireplace and the bookshelf at home--out of everybody's way and beneath everyone's notice. Pulling on the pants felt like pulling on another skin entirely, one where she made _sense,_ one where she wasn't plodding gracelessly and methodically through life. Instead, she was determined, she was strong, she was steady, dependable--everything that seemed to be valued in a man but scorned in a woman.

It was a shame she couldn't actually _see_ herself this way. Not that she was particularly fond of mirrors, but at home, she didn't quite have the courage to put aside the sensible yet expensive white silk knickers her mother bought in sets of twelve every year, always two sizes larger than the year before. At home, she didn't dare, so she kept the pants under her pillow where she could stroke the waistband as she drifted off to sleep or let the soft, worn fabric caress her cheek after her mother had given her _that look_ \--the one that let Millie know in no uncertain terms that she wasn't good enough and never would be--one too many times.

So here she was, hidden in the changing room showers, waiting for the voices of the rest of the team to fade away. It was tempting to leave the safety of the stall to see herself, but she knew instinctively that it was a bad idea, almost riskier than trying to get a glimpse in the dorm room mirror while the rest were at breakfast. Less risk of having Peeves stumble upon one in the dorms, which he was forbidden to enter on pain of exorcism.

Tempting, though, because today it wasn't only the pants, it was the padding--soft, warm leather pressing down her breasts and somehow stimulating them at the same time. Comfortingly heavy pads draped over her meaty shoulders in a way that made them look almost natural, or at the very least impressive, straps wrapped around her thick, solid thighs, highlighting their strength, her fine, limp hair tied back and tucked behind her helmet. It was as if her Quidditch kit took everything she hated about herself--or at least what she'd _learned_ to hate about herself and turned it into an asset. Instead of mean, sullen, Bulstrode the bully whom the boys all thought of in a bikini when trying to suppress erections (yes, she eavesdropped on occasion, what of it?) she was Bulstrode the Keeper, respected for her skill, an asset to the team.

It was so very, very tempting, just once, while everyone was away at dinner--surely it would be time enough to see what she looked like, to have an image to give her courage when everyone made her feel useless. She'd seen them go off in their happy little group, and so what if she missed eating, it wasn't as if skipping one meal was going to make her small and dainty like Parkinson (thought dainty probably only applied if you didn't count her lethal tongue) or slim and willowy like Davis, or even spectacularly curvy, like Greengrass. She hadn't really even had to explain herself--only Daphne bothered to ask if she was coming, and her mumbled response could well have been interpreted as 'I'll catch up.' Not that she was going to. Millicent planned to take as much time alone as she possibly could. With her heart beating madly, she ran her fingers over the articles draped carefully over her bed, the softly worn leather, the shiny buckles, the stiff padding, the dark, velvety green robes.

But most importantly, the soft cotton, which felt something like _home_ as it slid easily up her hips. Millicent stood in front of the mirror, hungrily drinking in her reflection in as the waistband snapped into place. They fit her like second skin, and she turned and admired her bottom in them, the way the white fabric clung to the curves, the way her thigh muscles came into prominence as she stood on her toes. The she turned and faced the mirror again, smoothing her hands down her stomach, which was flatter than the other girls might have suspected. _Thick,_ rock solid, but definitely flat, and as she bent forward, she noticed her abdominal muscles straining the way they might as she bent forward on her broom. Of course, that brought her breasts into greater prominence, too, and she slid her hands back up her torso to cup them tentatively. She had a sort of a love/hate relationship with the stupid things. On the one hand, she rather liked the way they looked, and touching them felt rather lovely, too, but for the most part, she wasn't quite sure what to do with them. She wasn't going to ever be the sort of girl depicted on the cover of Tracey's' dreadful paperback novels, with her blouse half ripped off and her bosom spilling forward as some muscular pirate ravaged her.

And anyway, did she _want_ to be ravaged? Who would, really? Sure, some of them (boys, men, whatever) weren't half bad to look at, but for the most part, boys were smelly, stupid creatures, and the idea of them slobbering all over her and sticking random body parts into her random orifices really didn't sound like all that much fun. _Kissing_ did, but the only kiss she'd ever got was at a Christmas party under mistletoe, and the boy in question (her first cousin, to boot) had to be threatened by his mother with hexing to come through.

Touching might be nice, too, come to think of it. Millicent's mother wasn't the most demonstrative person, so Millicent never quite knew what to do with affection when offered, which was rare enough. She was never going to be like that group of Hufflepuffs who were always squealing and hugging when they hadn't seen each other for an hour or so. Or that pair of Gryffindor girls who were always walking hand in hand and giggling in corners. Oh, she knew what the boys said about them, but she didn't buy it because they were both always looking to the side to see if any boys were watching.

 

Reluctantly turning away from the mirror, Millicent gathered up her shoulder pads, settling them on her shoulders and buckling the straps under her breasts. It probably looked absurd--or at least she should have put on a bra (or a vest to better go with the briefs.) Still, she liked the way the straps sort of framed her breasts, but it made her feel sort of squirmy to look at it for long, so she turned to pick up the chest guards before starting on the leg pads.

Suddenly she caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye and she gasped, clutching the padding in front of her, utterly mortified. _Please, not Pansy, anyone but Pansy, she'll never let me forget it,_ she prayed, though she wasn't sure anyone was listening.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a little voice was praying for it not to be Daphne, either, if only for the fact that Daphne was the only one of the girls who was nice to her even when she didn't need her to back her up in a fight. _That_ prayer, however, went unanswered, and Milly felt her heart sink as she recognized the familiar features, in spite of the fact that Daphne's large dark eyes were wide and the mouth was gaping.

But what was there to say? _I wanted to look at myself in men's underpants?_ And anyway, why must she explain herself? She'd caught Pansy and Draco at far worse, and she hadn't said anything had she? Come to think of it, she was _sick to death_ of it, actually, always trying to fit in while they got away with murder. Or maybe not _murder,_ but Draco had come pretty damn close last year, hadn't he?

"What are you looking at?" Millicent finally said, though she hadn't quite meant it to sound so intimidating, or at least she hadn't meant to make Daphne (who was actually decent, most of the time) recoil in fear (or maybe disgust.)

"I'm...I'm _sorry,"_ she said, in a very meek voice. "I wasn't....I mean., I wasn't _spying,_ " she said, and lifted her chin up a bit defiantly.

"Sure you weren't," Millicent replied, taking a step towards her, still clutching her pads. _Why, oh why, hadn't she opted for a vest?_ It was very difficult to inspire fear when your breasts (such as they were) were bouncing all over the place. Still, at least she had height on her side. Daphne wasn't as diminutive as Pansy (the sucked-up bitchy little cow) but Millie still towered over her. "Going to run off to Parkinson and tell her what a freak I am, are you? Going to see what it will get you, and maybe next they'll put in a good word and you'll get to _demonstrate_ Unforgivables rather than sitting around waiting to see if they pick you as victim? Maybe they'll pick me instead. You know how they feel about anything they think is _abnormality."_

"I don't---I'd _never_ do that!" Daphne whispered, her eyes darting down Millie's chest.

"Well, what, then? Blackmail?" Millicent knew she was probably giving away all her cards, possibly even giving Daphne ideas, if she was too stupid to know how to work this to her advantage. (Unlikely, that.)

"No," Daphne said, still shrinking back as Millicent took a step closer, effectively pinning Daphne to the wall.

"I just...I just... I came back because I wasn't hungry. Or rather I noticed that you weren't there and I wanted to see if anything was wrong."

"You wanted to see if I was _doing_ anything wrong, more like," Millicent muttered, trying to ignore the stupid swell of _something_ that burst inside her when it occurred to her that someone had _noticed_ for once, maybe even _cared._

"No, no, not at all. It's just..."

"What?" Millicent demanded.

"You _never_ skip dinner."

Millicent took a step back and sighed. That bit of _whatever_ it was fizzled, quickly replaced by shame and self-loathing, which were much more familiar. _Lard-arse Millie, always up for a meal. Or four._

"That's not what I meant at all--" Daphne said. "I don't... I mean I wasn't saying you're _fat,_ if that's what you're are thinking. I just sort of..."

"What?"

"I don't like it when you're not there. Or rather, I like it when you're there. I feel safer."

"Safer?"

"Between the Carrows, who are growing more insane with each passing day, and Pansy and Draco and whatever machinations they're involved in, and Crabbe and Goyle, who look as though they want to be the Carrows when they grow up...."

"Yeah?"

"I just feel like you're the only friend I have."

"What about your sister?"

"Well, that's half the trouble, isn't it? She's too young to do much, but she's a liability in some ways. They can get to me through her, you know?"

"And Tracy?"

"Her dad's one of the most enthusiastic Death Eaters there is, apart from that Lestrange lot. If you haven't got plans to get a Dark Mark as soon as humanly possible, you might as well be a Muggle."

"Nott?"

"This isn't about finding the only possible ally, Millie. I sort of thought we were friends. Or maybe I was wrong."

Millicent shook her head, bewildered, but feeling pleased, for some reason. Not that she trusted her or anything. "That still doesn't explain why you were spying on me."

"I _wasn't_ spying," Daphne repeated. "I just..."

"What?"

"I was _looking,_ all right? Curiosity got the better of me. You never get changed in front of us, and I was just a little surprised, is all."

"Surprised? I mean, w...I don't get it. Are you in the habit of looking at half-naked girls?" Millicent did her best to inject a note of scorn in her voice.

"No!" Greengrass said, shaking her head vehemently.

Millicent just stared, finally asking, "So, it was like a train wreck or something? So hideous you couldn't stop staring?"

"No!" she repeated, stepping forward, her eyes wide "Not hideous." She laughed, sounding almost hysterical. "What a thing to say. Good heavens, Bulstrode, is that what you think of yourself?"

Millicent very nearly forgot herself and nodded. But her body issues, such as they were, were not a weapon to be handed to another person. "It doesn't matter what I think. None of this matters, anyway. I was just...trying on my kit, and why I chose to do it now is nobody's business. Just keep your fucking mouth shut, or else."

Daphne nodded, seeming oddly relieved. Millie clutched her pads even closer to her chest and turned, rather desperate to get out of the ridiculous pants and shoulder pads and inside the privacy of her bed hangings.

A small voice stopped her from taking another step. "Millie?"

"What?" she asked on a sigh. Would this humiliation never cease?

"I lied."

_I should have known. Never trust a housemate with a juicy secret._ Millie felt the anger building up again and spun to face Daphne. The threat that was on the tip of her tongue fizzled as she caught something on Daphne's face that seemed to resemble pleading. (Or maybe yearning. And where the hell had that come from? Definitely not yearning. Definitely not. Impossible.)

"About the half naked girls, I mean," Daphne continued, searching her eyes. "I _am_ in the habit of looking at them," she admitted.  
  
Whatever Millicent was expecting her to say (threats,derision blackmail?) _that_ certainly wasn't it. Was she saying what Millicent thought she was saying? Didn't the idiot girl know she was handing a weapon to a fucking Slytherin?

"And I don't care what you think, Millie. You're beautiful."

Millicent felt her face heat up and a strange prickling at the back of her neck. 'I don't care what you think,' had her expecting defiance, but Daphne actually seemed to be...well Millicent didn't quite know what she was saying, but she was afraid to meet Daphne's eyes. Instead, she focused at the spot between the bottom of Daphne's skirt and the top of her socks. She really had pretty knees, come to think of it. "Excuse me?" Millicent whispered. The knees were coming closer, and Millie closed her eyes.

You're beautiful," she heard again and then she felt the pads she was holding like a life vest being pulled gently but firmly out of her hands and dropped to the floor. It was really saying something that Millicent was too embarrassed or frightened (or thrilled) to bother picking them up. She took really good care of her Quidditch kit normally. It wasn't until Millicent felt a hand on her shoulder that she opened her eyes, and then only in surprise.

"You really, _really_ want an ally, don't you?" she whispered, wondering why she wasn't taking offense at being thought of as one of _those_ kind of girls. Yes, she'd heard of them, but why would Daphne have assumed that she was one of them? Just because she wasn't the most feminine of creatures didn't mean...

And then she felt that same hand slide from her shoulder to her arm, which was currently crossed over her chest. Daphne took another step forward and tugged at Millie's wrist, trying to pull it away from her chest. When she succeeded, Daphne inhaled sharply. "Beautiful," she repeated, and the awe in her voice sounded almost genuine.

"No, I'm not," Millicent replied in a strangled whisper. (What was wrong with her stomach, anyway? It felt as though a troupe of acrobatic pixies were having a party in there.)

Daphne merely took her hand in reply and led her toward the mirror. "You saw it, too, when you were looking in the mirror. I could tell by your eyes. Open them, Millie." Biting her lip, Millicent complied.

It was the nearly same view as before, but with the added bonus of Daphne's face off to the side. Daphne's hands hovered over her body, apparently itching to touch. Millicent wondered how they would feel if they actually made contact. They were lovely hands--Millie had always thought so--far prettier than her own, with long, tapered fingers and oval nails buffed to a pink sheen.

"Look at your skin," Daphne said, and Millie felt compelled to do so. (Imperius? Probably not--the sharp hunger and excitement she was feeling were far less familiar than the vague contentment she'd felt when she allowed Pansy to experiment upon her.) She could see Daphne's graceful fingers hovering mere millimeters over her skin. Millcent's skin was dark in comparison to Daphne--darkest at the neck and forearms, marked by hours spent in the sunshine on her broomstick. The broad expanse of her chest and belly seemed to take on a golden sheen in the candlelight, almost as if they glowed from within. There were shadows, too--they danced over her skin, some a result of the flickering flames and some marking the movement of Daphne's fingers. If Millicent squinted, she could almost pretend those fingers were caressing her rather than simply gesturing (or were they teasing?)

"Do you see these arms--how strong they are?" Daphne murmured, and miraculously her fingers actually made contact--tracing the line of muscle on Millicent's arms--the curve of a bicep, the long line of her forearm defined by years of throwing a Quaffle. Those magical fingers moved around to her back, and Millicent shivered as Daphne traced the ridges of her spine. "You never stand straighter than when you've walked off a Quidditch Pitch victorious. I _love_ it when you do that--your head high, your shoulders back. You're absolutely magnificent."

Millie found herself standing taller, almost involuntarily, and she watched in fascination as the blush on her cheeks spread down her neck to the rest of her body. She was fighting the urge to close her eyes blissfully against the sensation of Daphne's fingers--which were dancing gently over the muscles of her back--but at the same time she felt strangely compelled to drink in the view of her own body responding to the unexpected stimulation.

Like that, _there,_ she thought--she didn't look half bad with her eyes hooded and dark, her cheeks stained pink, her lips plump from where she'd bit them--she was almost _pretty_ that way. Not nearly as pretty as the face behind her, though--with those lovely dark-fringed eyes all predatory and intense (bloody hell, Daphne was gorgeous)--but not hideous, at least. Not a 'prick shrinker'--if she remembered the wordage correctly. _Acceptable,_ maybe.

She was so caught up in her own reflection (and Daphne's) that she'd nearly forgot about the hands on her body, (glorious, talented hands) and then she had to close her eyes again, because Daphne's fingers had wandered back around, lightly caressing her belly (such as it was.) If her insides hadn't been topsy turvy before, they certainly were now, and Millicent fought the urge to suck in her stomach, supposing that Daphne was likely well aware of what she really looked like and didn't seem to mind.

In fact, she seemed to be giving an extraordinary amount of attention to Millie's least favorite body part, with her clever fingers dipping into the navel (how odd that such a silly thing should feel so bloody good) tracing her ticklish sides, memorizing the place where her flesh curved out the furthest and exploring the place it was most sensitive, where it began to dip into the waistband of the pants. And oh, dear Merlin, the sodding pants--she was still standing there in boy's knickers, of all things, but they almost looked perfectly natural ( _sexy,_ even) as Daphne traced the seams with her fingertips, leaving frustratingly faint sensations on the aching flesh beneath the cotton.

Far too soon, (and just as Millie began to think she'd _die_ if Daphne didn't touch her harder) the now familiar hands moved up her torso, fumbling with the buckle of the shoulder pads--the fingertips almost but not quite touching the sensitive flesh beneath her breast . Millicent hissed, and caught a fleeting smile in the mirror (definitely a Slytherin, this one, no one else could be that fucking smug--or at least no one but a stupid Gryfindor on a crusade of some sort.) The clever fingers eventually worked their magic and Millicent felt a weight being lifted as the shoulder pads dropped to the floor beside them (oughtn't she really to pick it up off the floor? One misstep and they'd snap into pieces) but by the time it occurred to her to pick them up, Daphne's fingers had moved up to trace the line between her breasts (such as they were) and _oh, shit,_ how had she never known how sensitive _that_ bit of skin was? Millicent found a small moan escaping from her lips and Daphne was really, _definitely_ smirking now, but Millicent didn't give a toss, she was arching back against Daphne (knowing she was as likely to knock her down as much as anything, but she really couldn't help herself) and Daphne was pressing forward into her, and both her hands had closed around Millie's breasts now, and she was squeezing gently and rolling the nipples between her fingers and Millie was moaning in earnest now, unable to wrap her mind around the fact that a simple touch (from another person, anyway) could feel so achingly, _maddeningly_ good.

Daphne reached up to undo the band around Millicent's hair (her hair didn't look all that bad for some reason, or maybe it was only that it was tousled by Daphne's fingers) and Millicent leaned against Daphne's hand as it slid down her face and briefly cradled her cheek (when was the last time her mother had done that?) and she was watching the pair them in the mirror, and Daphne's hand looked so fucking perfect there, and the other one looked even better as it crept back down her belly and toyed with the waistband of her (borrowed, _really._ Just for a few days, or weeks, maybe) underpants. Millicent's mind was screaming, _go under, go under,for fuck's sake_ though such a thought would have utterly horrified her the day before (yeah, right). Either Daphne was a demon in disguise or she _really_ loved teasing, because there was hardly a bit of the plain white cotton she didn't touch, just softly enough to stimulate but nowhere near hard enough to really be _felt,_ at least not until the fingertips had inserted themselves through the fly and brushed against the curls between Millicent's legs.

Millie swore softly--she'd never felt anything like it, not even when she touched herself. Which she _didn't_ , usually--or at least not unless she couldn't sleep and the dorm was silent and her imagination was more vivid than usual (it wasn't easy to conjure out of thin air the way it felt when she flew past a Quidditch box full of her screaming, cheering house mates or the way it felt when you knew that everyone in the room feared you even if they didn't like you, or the way that Daphne had looked that time Millicent 'accidentally' walked in on her in the shower.) But no, this was even better--Daphne seemed to know _exactly_ where to touch her, and very nearly the perfect way to touch, or at least the way to touch if you wanted someone to be begging shamelessly for more. Which Millie certainly wasn't, not _begging_ for more, anyway, but panting and moaning, maybe, especially when Daphne's fingers ventured all the way between her legs. Millie was almost embarrassingly wet, but Daphne seemed to like it very much indeed, and _bloody hell_ \--how was it possible for a person to stand so much pleasure, how could such a simple thing be so utterly fucking amazing, and wasn't it just brilliant that she had a body that could do everything else it could do and it still could do _this,_ feel _this_?

As Millicent reached back to bury her fingers in Daphne's hair, practically mewling in pleasure, Daphne kept repeating, "Beautiful," as if every sound, every twitch, every shudder Millicent gave her was a rare and precious gift Millicent leaned back against Daphne even more--her knees seemed incapable of holding up the weight of her body (not likely Daphne could do any better than Millicent's own knees, which, while not particularly pretty, were generally quite strong, and had been holding her up quite well for several years, at least.) But Daphne seemed stronger than she looked-- _tenacious,_ even, (and possibly quite ruthless, or at least relentless) because Millicent was beginning to think that either she was going to collapse and crush her friend (or was she a lover now?) or she was going to burst into a million quivering pieces. Still, Daphne kept going, circling, stroking, moving her fingers inside Millicent, twisting them, scissoring them, driving her mad, whispering filthy things in her ear (how long she'd wanted to do this, _other_ things she dreamed of doing, what she wanted Millicent to do to _her_ ) until Milly was screaming, shuddering, soaking Daphne's fingers.

With a decidedly self-satisfied (and rather sexy, come to think of it) smile, Daphne withdrew her hand from the gap in Millicent's pants and examined her fingers with apparent satisfaction, raising them to her nose and inhaling (almost un-fucking-believable cheek, but dear Merlin, why did Millicent find it so utterly hot?)

"Beautiful, " Daphne repeated, and Millicent looked again at the pair of them in the mirror, shaking her head in amazement. She really _did_ look beautiful like that, beautiful and decadent and very possibly depraved, with her borrowed briefs gaping open, with her skin glowing from an the best orgasm she'd ever had, finger marks on her breasts, her nipples taut, her eyes nearly glazed over in pleasure. For a moment, Millicent wished she had a camera.  
 _  
Perhaps next time,_ she thought, and reluctantly turned around. Only having something even more beautiful to turn to would have compelled her to do it, (or fear of getting caught) but she did--she had the most beautiful creature in the world in front of her, and while she may have been a little slow on the uptake, she knew an opportunity when she saw one.

"Beautiful," she said, and lifted Daphne's chin for a kiss. (A definite improvement upon kissing cousin Meinfreid, that was certain.) Somewhere in the back of her mind it occurred to her that maybe this was a play for alliance in an uncertain year. Maybe this was setting her up for blackmail. Or maybe Daphne was scared and sought protection from the only girl who'd dare stand up to the boys. Millie really didn't care. For the first time in her life, she didn't feel alone. For the first time in her life, she knew who she was and what she wanted. She knew she had something worth fighting for, and the Carrows, Parkinson, Malfoy, even her mum--hell, even sodding _Voldemort himself_ could go and piss off.


End file.
